


Heartlines

by ccharlotte



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccharlotte/pseuds/ccharlotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are all of them dealing with the war in their own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartlines

**Author's Note:**

> Post-war (though not by much), thoroughly non-compliant with J.K. Rowling's epilogue. Isabel Moon, Slytherin, is more-or-less an original character, save for the unsorted surname. Title shamelessly stolen from the Florence and the Machine song of the same name.

It is Smith’s self-proclaimed “brilliant”-but-flawed idea to Charm the Malfoy peacocks a more _festive_ red and green.

Not for the first time, Theodore Nott wonders _what_ in Merlin’s name Isabel Moon sees in the Hufflepuff.

\- - -

Theodore finds Draco Malfoy on his knees in his mother’s garden, his wand in his right hand, an outraged emerald peacock in the other. Snow cakes the knees of his Muggle trousers and clings to his winter cloak, and Theodore surmises he has been grappling with the peacock, and losing. 

“Let me,” he offers, but Draco fairly slashes the ten inches of hawthorn and unicorn hair in his direction. It emits a shower of harmless sparks, points of lights that fall winking to the fresh snow. Nothing more. The wand, for a time Potter’s, still responds to Draco in unpredictable fits and starts. 

“I can do it myself,” Draco grinds out, his eyes narrow with anger. Theodore considers the still-green bird, the scratches on Draco’s hands, and thinks otherwise, but steps back regardless. They are all of them dealing with the war in their own way.

\- - -

Isabel bakes.

Eleven days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Theodore lowers himself to the hex-scarred kitchen floor of Fern Cottage. He pries Isabel’s fingers from the mixing bowl and wide wooden spoon, holds them in his own. Holds her heaving shoulders, smooths his thumbs along her flour-and-tear-streaked cheeks. 

But he is helpless, powerless, and the cakes she pulls from the oven are bitter with grief.

\- - -

“He’s going to marry her,” Draco states, grim. Theodore is uncertain whether the tone is in response to Smith or the peacock. It is mere steps from Draco, and already its plumage darkens to green anew. Draco curses and throws snow at its quickly-retreating tail.

“I know.” He offers Draco his hand, to help him to his feet. Draco accepts, and Theodore’s stomach tightens at the contact. “Your fingers are cold,” he tells him, unnecessarily, and he does not let go, even as Draco stands before him.

Draco slides both his hands into the fur-lined pockets of his cloak when Theodore finally releases him. His breath steams in the air between them, and Theodore thinks of kissing him. “I know.”

\- - - 

Smith simply acts like a right arse.

Eleven weeks after the Second War ends, Theodore encounters the Hufflepuff at the small establishment where Isabel tends tables and fends off the advances of an unseemly lot of perpetually smashed Parisian Quidditch fans.

She holds her own admirably, against both the unwelcome hands of the Quafflepunchers crowd _and_ Smith. He is in town to cover Draco Malfoy's "triumphant" professional Quidditch debut "with the only sodding team that will take him," Smith says, one hip propped against the gouged wood of the bar, his eyes on her breasts. Theodore curls his hands into fists, prepares to intercede, to protect, but then-- Isabel smiles.

\- - -

Draco walks from Narcissa Malfoy's once-fine flower garden, all ice and brambles now, and Theodore follows, careful to step only where his fellow Slytherin does. Curses limn the wrought-iron gates and Dark runes mark the snowy flagstones, unwanted mementos of the Dark Lord's time here.

Before they reach the manor, Theodore touches Draco's wrist, slows him. Draco turns, exhaling an irritated "What is it, Nott?" but Theodore silences him, his lips to the Malfoy heir's. Snowflakes melt in his silver lashes, and the stubborn set of his mouth soon follows.

Isabel bakes and Smith jokes and Theodore thinks perhaps, just perhaps, he and Draco are answer enough for each other.


End file.
